


More than Enough

by last_illusions (injured_eternity)



Category: CSI: NY
Genre: Episode Tag, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-11
Updated: 2008-11-11
Packaged: 2017-10-17 09:25:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/175350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/injured_eternity/pseuds/last_illusions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His offer of dinner at an Argentinian restaurant isn't quite on par with Buenos Aires itself, but it ends up being more than enough compensation. Rather fluffy Mac/Stella post-ep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More than Enough

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: I would be a horrible Mac/Stella fan if I did not follow up on the Argentinian restaurant sideline. Ergo, here you are. As a preemptive strike, the close is not a spoiler: it is simply wishful thinking on my part.
> 
> Spoilers: 5x03 ["Turbulence"]; 5x06 ["Enough"]

It didn’t take a genius to figure out why, exactly, the entirety of dayshift CSI had suddenly upped and cancelled vacations that had been planned for months. With a wry smile, Mac Taylor tossed the case file he’d been reading back on his desk, intending to go find his partner, at which point she walked past his office as if on cue, fiddling with her hands and entering with a slightly guarded, almost sheepish expression.

“I should have known you’d orchestrate something like this,” he said by way of greeting as he stood to move around the back of his desk.

“It’s only temporary,” she cautioned, gesturing vaguely in that trademark manner of hers. “Everybody giving up a week of paid vacation for Adam buys him a little time.”

Shrugging into his suit jacket, Mac shot her a calculating look. “The department doesn’t just _transfer_ vacation days; how’d you do it?”

A rather self-satisfied smile quirked her lips as she tipped her head, focussing on a spot beyond her boss’ shoulder. “I have a friend at the union who has a friend at the city council…” Mac stepped up next to her, raising an eyebrow, and she concluded vaguely, “Who has a friend with a friend.”

“And, well, you’re a good friend, Stella Bonasera,” he pointed out, pushing open the door of his office.

With a cheeky smile in his direction, she followed. “And don’t you forget that.”

“So what about Buenos Aires?”

Pursing her lips, she just nodded. “It would have been a good trip.”

Both chuckling at the level of understatement, they made for the stairs, and Mac offered casually, “You know, I know this nice little Argentinian restaurant down the block that might do.”

Carefully hiding her surprise at the suggestion, Stella grinned. “Great. You buying?”

With an outright laugh that made a few of the officers turn in surprise (Mac Taylor, laughing? Surely the apocalypse was nigh!), he nodded. “Why not—it’s the least I can do.”

She just smiled, declining to give a verbal response of any sort, and pushed through the main doors, holding them open for him. With a deep breath, she locked her hands behind her back, stretching her shoulders and enjoying the remnants of fall: it wasn’t yet cold enough to warrant coats, but it wouldn’t stay that way for long.

“Ready for winter?”

 _And you turned psychic... when?_ Aloud, she answered, “Of course not. Who’s ever ready for zero-degree nights and shovelling a driveway at five a.m. or—”

Mac held up his hands in mock surrender. “All right, all right! I’m sorry I asked!” A rueful expression crossed his face, and he shook his head. “I should know better.”

Chuckling softly, she nodded in agreement. “Yes, you really should.”

“You were by no means obligated to agree with that,” he pointed out drily with a roll of his eyes, and she just shot him another of those impish smiles of hers.

“I know.”

She paused long enough to glare and throw her hands up in exasperation as an overeager driver almost ran them over in the crosswalk. “You know, I’m always half-tempted to just let one of them hit me,” she grumbled. “Ignoring the fact I’d be either injured or dead, the realisation that they were up against the whole damn department for hitting one of their own would almost be worth it.”

The glance Mac turned her way was half-amused, half-worried. “Easy there, Stel.”

Not bothering to come up with a more elaborate response, she simply stuck her tongue out at him and changed the subject. “So how’d you find this place? Last I checked, Argentinian cuisine wasn’t exactly highly prevalent in Manhattan.”

“Oh, I have a friend with a friend,” was his evasive answer, and it was her turn to roll her eyes.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you to be original, Mac?” she asked wryly.

With a low chuckle, he merely shrugged. “I borrow only from the best.” He placed a hand at the small of her back, gently guiding her into a left turn, and pulled open a wooden door. “We’re here.”

Hiding a smile at the solicitous chivalry she hadn’t had the opportunity to experience in a while, she stepped inside, and her eyebrows shot into her hairline almost of their own volition. The building was unusual for New York City, especially Manhattan: though small, the high, vaulted ceiling sloped down, making the room seem larger and more open than it actually was. Bright flags and large paintings decorated the walls, and a fireplace burned at the back of the room, creating an inviting feel that contrasted effectively with the usual elegant efficiency of which the central part of the city was so fond.

“This is fantastic,” she murmured under her breath, and the grin he turned her way surprised her with its open pleasure—she hadn’t seen a look like that on his face in _years_.

Before either of them had a chance to comment, whether he on her observation or she on his temperament, the hostess approached with two menus and a (stunningly enough) genuine greeting. Idle conversation was replaced by surprised appreciation for the atmosphere and curiosity over the menu, and not until they’d finally ordered did they return to, well, something not regarding the food choices. He offered a silent toast with his water glass, which she returned, and then she pointed a challenging finger at him.

“So really—how did you find this place?”

Grinning at her persistence, he gave up. “Friend from Boston was in town a few months ago. Had this recommended to him by another friend, so we came here for dinner.”

“Ah,” she nodded. “Well, it certainly seems to live up to its reputation.”

“That it definitely does.” He dipped a piece of flatbread in the oddly spiced salsa that had been served—neither of them were going to be having sinus problems for a while—then added, “How’s… Brendon? Assuming I remembered his name.”

It took a moment for the question to register properly, and when it did, her expression turned wry. “Oh, you did. We broke up about two weeks ago.”

“Oh,” Mac answered, trapped in that awkward moment that inevitably follows most awkward questions, and his partner took pity on him.

“After that case with the Marshal on the plane, he told me he didn’t want to be with a woman who’d drop everything the minute work called. I told him I wasn’t quitting my job for him, and he walked out.” Pausing to pick up a piece of flatbread herself, she shrugged. “Haven’t heard from him since, but strangely, it’s not that big a loss.”

“So I guess ‘I’m sorry to hear that’ really isn’t a fitting response this time?”

Laughing quietly, she shook her head. “Not really, no, seeing’s how I’m actually _not_ that sorry.”

“Well, good for you, then.”

With the tilt of her head that signalled confusion, she pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes; he couldn’t help the smile that turned up the corners of his mouth at the familiarity of the gesture, though he tried to hide it.

“Sorry—I meant he obviously wasn’t good enough to merit your time, so it’s probably better you’re free to look elsewhere.”

“True,” she admitted, then added drily, “My taste in men is obviously lacking.”

He resisted the urge to agree, instead offering vague concession with, “Stick to friends. They seem to give you less trouble.”

She laughed outright at that, but before she could say more, the waitress arrived, surprising them both with the speed. True, they’d both ordered cold meals after the rush hour, but nobody ever served food quickly in restaurants anymore—it seemed like a violation of a code or something.

Dinner easily lived up to expectations, and they spent it people watching, avoiding heavier topics of conversation for a later time. When the bill finally came, Stella protested her partner’s paying, at which point he remarked, “You _did_ ask,” and she was left grumbling under her breath about men who listened at all the wrong times.

He just laughed, paid the tab, and offered her a hand up.

“You have your car at the lab, or would you like a ride home?”

“Would you mind terribly giving me a lift?”

“Of course not. I wouldn’t have offered if I did.”

She raised one dark brow at him, green eyes sparkling in the light of the city. “You should really stop stealing my lines, you know.”

“You _are_ the one who tells me to stop making my brain do all the work,” he pointed out drily. “I’m just taking your advice.”

Punching him in the shoulder, she found herself once again muttering at him in an undertone, but she accepted the ride nonetheless. The music he had playing caught her attention once he started the car, however, and neither of them bothered with conversation during the twenty-minute ride out toward her apartment, letting the soprano vocals fill the silence instead. When he pulled into the parking garage and killed the engine, he turned toward her, nodding at the radio.

“Like her, I take it?”

“Very much so,” she agreed. “Gorgeous voice—who is it?”

“Helen Trevillion. Hawkes’ suggestion.”

“Figures.” Refusing to quantify that statement, she simply grabbed her purse and stepped out of the sedan, poking her head back in long enough to ask, “You want to come up for a drink or something?”

Sparing a glance at the timestamp on the radio display, he shrugged and stepped out of the car. “Sure.”

“Don’t sound so… willing,” she teased, leading him through the garage to the entrance and keying them into the building.

“Just don’t poison me is all I ask.”

“Such a trial.”

She couldn’t remember the last time they’d had the chance to do this, the last time they’d been quite so in tune. It felt like years since the harmony that had once defined their friendship had been present, but she certainly wasn’t complaining, nor was she about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“How’s this place treating you?”

Starting out of her reverie and trying to hide it, she let a shrug precede her answer: ambivalence was always a good way to start. “I miss my old apartment,” she admitted once she had her bearings back, “but this place is nice. At least there aren’t masses of people slamming doors at six a.m., so I’ll take what I can get.”

“Had a chance to meet your neighbours, or are you not home enough for that?”

“Speaking from experience?”

“Of course not. Neither of us have a track record of that or anything.”

“Us, workaholics? Never,” she tossed at him with a bit of dramatic flair for effect, and he hid a smile, letting himself survey the hall as she unlocked her door.

“You don’t have to case the hall, Mac.”

At that, he jumped, then offered her a sheepish smile in answer. “Habit?”

Holding a hand out for his coat, as she flipped on the light, she shook her head in good-natured bewilderment. “That Marine in you…” She shut the door to the hall closet, gestured at the sitting room with one hand, and continued into the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “What can I get you? Wine? Beer? Something stronger?”

“Wine’s good.”

He followed her into the kitchen instead of sitting down to wait, heading for the cabinet roughly parallel to the one she’d kept wineglasses in at her old apartment. Bingo. Turning, he held out two long-necked glasses, and she just laughed, gesturing for him to hold them out so she could pour.

“You, Mac Taylor, have been spending entirely too much time in my apartments.”

“Guilty as charged,” he answered with an abbreviated bow, careful to avoid upsetting the glasses and spilling wine all over her.

Rolling her eyes and shooing him into the living room, she put the bottle down on the kitchen counter before following him. He’d taken a seat on the sofa, and she joined him, tucking her feet up under her and accepting her glass from him with a nod. Silence settled comfortably between them, and Stella took a sip of the merlot, relishing its full flavour and wondering if she’d fall asleep sitting there; then, breaking the quiet, Mac offered a sudden, unexpected apology.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you earlier.”

Stella's eyes registered surprise, but at least she didn’t need to ask to what he was referring. “I’m sorry I went to head with you quite that firmly,” she returned with a slightly rueful half-smile.

Hesitation; then, “You know why I can’t just let—”

“It’s okay, Mac,” she interrupted him. “I don’t necessarily believe it’s a fair trade either way; I just think I argued the other side a little too convincingly.”

“You do it well.”

The rather cryptic comment prompted a curious look from her, and he shrugged. “You do it all the time—argue with me to keep me grounded.” Her expression froze, eyes wide like a deer in the headlights, and he laughed softly. “You think I hadn’t noticed after ten years’ knowing you?”

“Well, no, but… you can’t—I don’t…” She was positively sputtering, and her partner took perhaps a little too much satisfaction in seeing the usually perfectly composed Stella Bonasera tripping over her words like a newborn colt over his feet.

“I can and you do,” he said firmly, attempting to quell her protests, “and I really don’t thank you for it as much as I should.”

She mumbled something that sounded vaguely akin to, “You don’t have to thank me,” to which he cheerfully responded, “Oh, I do.”

With a shake of her head—there really didn’t seem to be a more appropriate answer—she settled for reaching for the remote. Channel surfing, if nothing else, couldn’t best her in conversation.

“Commercials keep getting worse,” Mac commented in exasperation as she passed a particularly obnoxious car salesman whose associate beat Barbie dolls in proportion.

“Infomercials are stupider, I think.”

Then she hit a rerun of _Casablanca_ , roughly a half-hour into its showing, and they both froze, she staring at him and he at the screen. Claire had _loved_ that film, making it a point to try and watch it at least once every couple of months, and Stella had lost track of the number of times she’d been cornered into staying to see it. She opened her mouth to say… _something_ , but he beat her to it.

“I—I haven’t seen this since…” he trailed off, turning to meet worried green eyes, and murmured, “since Claire died.”

He still didn’t speak much of her, but at least now the bitter pain no longer pervaded the timbre of his voice, making it something sharper that didn’t truly suit him. There was still the unavoidable touch of sadness, but it was quietly reminiscent now, rather than constant.

When he didn’t seem inclined to continue, she offered tentatively, “Want to finish it?”

He hesitated, glancing at the clock like he wanted to say yes but was afraid of keeping her up, so she extended the proverbial olive branch.

“I’m probably going to do it anyway even if you leave, so…”

The hesitation was still there, but he nodded, so she set the remote on the coffee table and leaned back into the cushions, casting surreptitious glances at her partner out of the corner of her eye every now and again. Eventually, he offered to refill her glass, and when he returned to set the bottle on the table, he sat back down a little closer.

“We started watching this night of the tenth,” he said softly after a few minutes, the “we” self-explanatory. “I never did have a chance to finish it—the disc sat in the player for… months before I could bring myself to take it out.”

Wincing in sympathy, Stella reached over to squeeze his hand, lacking the words with which to respond that wouldn’t make her seem either trite or insincere, but when she tried to pull back, his fingers tightened around hers, holding her there. She turned in surprise, startled green meeting calm blue, and, slowly, his silent questions were answered with a smile. As she turned back to the film, the stark contrast between him and, say, Frankie, registered somewhere in the back of her mind: Mac would ask—had asked—her permission even for something so small.

By the time the film ended an hour later, she was tucked against his side, his arm around her shoulders. Though part of her wondered where on earth he was going and what the hell had happened, there was another part of her that simply didn’t care, happy to relish the warmth she had missed from him for quite some time now. The credits had rolled over some advertisement voiceover for a horror movie showing sometime within the next day or so before she could convince herself to actually _move_ ; she hadn’t been that comfortable in months, and disturbing it willingly took some doing on her part.

Mac stood, slipping the stems of the wineglasses between his fingers to free a hand to help her up. Accepting, she stretched her arms over her head, popping her spine before reaching for the bottle on the table, and he flinched.

“What?”

“That noise—Danny does that with his knuckles all the time. Never ceases to drive me crazy.”

She laughed, pulling her hair off her neck with one hand. “It never ceases to amuse me how much that bugs you,” she admitted as she re-corked the wine and stuck the bottle in the door of her refrigerator.

With a roll of eyes, he shook his head and continued past her to deposit the glasses beside the sink. “Thanks.”

“Any time,” she answered cheerfully, earning herself another glare from her friend, and she braced her elbows on the counter before adding, “Can you drive?”

Raising his eyebrows and mirroring her position across the width of the Corian, he shot her a bemused look. “I had two glasses of wine, Stel. I don’t get drunk quite _that_ easily…”

“Just checking!” she protested, holding up both hands.

“Uh-huh,” he countered, and if he’d been the type to stick out his tongue, he probably would have. “I know next to you I look like a lightweight, but you don’t have to make a point of it…”

“I’m not, I’m not! Really!”

The feigned innocence was not lost on him, and he grinned. “Sure…” Twisting around at an awkward angle to glance at the clock on the stove, he winced. “Ouch. I should probably head home.”

She leaned around him to look at the time herself and made a moue. “Yeah, really. God knows you don’t sleep as it is.”

“I’m not even going to _start_ that argument tonight,” he mumbled as he followed her to the entryway.

“Only because you know I’m right,” she pointed out with a satisfied smirk.

She held up his suit jacket, and he sighed, slipping into it with a nod of thanks. “Like I said, no comment.”

With a soft laugh, she reached over and undid the deadbolt. “Thanks for the company. And dinner.”

He laid a hand over hers, stopping her from turning the doorknob, and turned her to face him with his other hand on her shoulder. “You’re always welcome,” he answered softly, then leaned down to kiss her.

There was none of the cliché time dilation films were so fond of; dramatic symphonies didn’t start playing in her apartment from the orchestra (or concert sound system) that spontaneously appeared; circuits didn’t suddenly short out, plunging the apartment into darkness; fireworks didn’t suddenly explode in the sky over the building. That didn’t, however, make the kiss any less sweet, and she reached up, wrapping her arm around his neck and enjoying the warmth of his hand on her hip. When they came up for air, it was he who looked rather triumphant and she who seemed a trifle stunned, so he leaned back down, lips by her ear as he pulled her into a hug.

“I told you to stick to friends, didn’t I?”

Laughing outright, she returned the hug, then tipped her head back to kiss him again.

“I guess you did.”

  
 _Finis._

 _Feedback is always appreciated._


End file.
